


still retaining our charm

by orphan_account



Series: game on [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Presidential Election, Alternate Universe - The West Wing, Gen, more from this au ! heroic origins and all that, tryin to get a grip on angelica in this universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 16:30:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7060447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or: Angelica and Eliza go to interview to work for Washington For America. Things don't go as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	still retaining our charm

**Author's Note:**

> shhh i know this isn't how campaigns work i'm just using west wing logic
> 
> what's really fun about this verse is looking up the name origins of various cities in virginia to see whether or not they would still have their names in this au. i'm still not sure about my hometown, honestly? anyways. enjoy!
> 
> as per usual-- this is based on the west wing, a little bit, a lot bit sometimes. i don't know what senior staff on campaigns are called i am only one humble int*rn.

Angelica’s heels are killing her. She doesn’t even remember buying them, still isn’t sure why she wore them today, considering they’re a size small. Maybe they’re Peggy’s. They give Angelica a few inches’ boost, though, which is nice. But despite that, which is presumably one of their two redeeming qualities, besides looking nice, these shoes are the devil, as far as she’s concerned.

She knows she’s only here because her dad’s rich, an old friend of Ben Franklin and General (Congressman? She’s not sure which title he prefers), Washington’s, but Angelica will be damned if she doesn’t want to work on this campaign. She’s just privileged enough to have an easy way in, and she’s fine with that, honestly. She’ll impress them all anyway, she impresses everyone anyway. Eliza tags along with her, because Eliza’s moving to the area for work in September, and politics are interesting enough to her, and hey, she has experience from high school. They’ve rented a tiny apartment in Alexandria, and they’re gonna take Washington For America, the newest entry to the primary race, by storm, they’re both sure of it. Washington’s been rising up in the polls, a sensible candidate, an obvious choice. 

They stop for coffee on the way to HQ, where the email told them to go, Eliza’s drink some sugary, only two-percent coffee concoction that Angelica thinks could be poisonous, and Angelica’s with three shots of espresso. Eliza says that could be poisonous too, but Angelica’s used to this, okay, she worries for Eliza’s composition. 

HQ is cramped, sweaty, loud. They wait ten minutes before they’re even noticed— everyone’s on the phone or talking to each other. It’s a small staff, Angelica notes, despite the noise. Eventually, A man Angelica sees at every press conference, every event on TV so far, runs, no, sprints full-speed up to the two of them, tie not on correctly, it’ll fall off in the next five minutes, oh God how has he not fixed his tie yet, left hand in a brace. He stops himself, toppling over a little bit, which is strangely charming, and says, voice exactly the opposite of how she had imagined it, but she’s used to it from TV now, “You must be Angelica Schuyler.”  
“Yeah, and this is my sister. Eliza. We’re both interviewing.”  
“Alexander Hamilton. And you’re both hired.”  
“Sorry?”  
“Franklin loves both of you, so. You’re both qualified, we’re _drastically_ understaffed, some sort of shake-up? This early in the campaign, yeah. I told him you two _need to sit down with us_ first, but he swore you two were _perfect_ and _amazing_ and _just the best_ , so. We vetted you, all that. Angelica, you gotta meet with him and Burr. I’ll talk more to you later. Elizabeth, uh, you come with me.”  
“Sorry?”  
“Come with me, you gotta help me with—“  
“We haven’t accepted,” she says, “And it’s Eliza. Or Betsey, if you’re cute.”  
“Betsey, then,” he smiles, no, smirks at the both of them, and Eliza laughs, without much amusement in the rest of her face, “Do you and your sister, Angelica, accept this offer to work for Washington For America?”  
“What would our positions be?”  
“Angelica, I have no fucking clue what you’ll be doing, but I assume it’s notable, because Burr is crazy impressed with you. Franklin is so fuckin’ weird, keeps me in the dark _all the time_ , you two have met him, right?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, “Eliza, you’ll be working for me. Helping me. I do know that, he didn’t keep me in the dark from _that_. So. Follow me.”  
“I was hoping to just volunteer—“  
“And now you’re getting paid to assist me. Be glad.”  
“Paid what?”  
“Shit wages, which our administration, should we be elected, will dramatically improve while in office. Obviously. Now, uh, follow me.”

And she does, and Angelica is left alone, standing up straight as she can, high heels unfamiliar with this ground. A man she’s mildly familiar with— probably from TV again, walks towards her— maybe thirty-five, buzzed head, tired eyes, an orange backpack tight around his shoulders like a tortoise shell, which is ridiculous. He looks ridiculous. 

“I’m Aaron Burr, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Angelica,” he says, big smile, over-enunciating every syllable, “Franklin’s decided to. Take his break now, so you’ll be talking to me, about duties.”  
“And what’s your role?”  
“I’m his deputy,” he says, “Why’re you here?”  
“To get a job,” says Angelica, resisting rolling her eyes— she’ll only go so far with her interviewer.  
“Nah, I mean,” he looks her dead in the eye, “That perfume, it’s expensive as hell— and your last name’s Schuyler, for Christ’s sake. You Why’re you working down here in the trenches?”  
“Maybe I want to help a cause I believe in?” she asks, wondering how the hell he knows her perfume.

He shrugs, mouths “Good luck,” and gestures for her to follow him into a room— a cramped office with posters and stickers covering the walls top-to-bottom.

He takes off his backpack as he sits down, takes out a binder with her resumé in it, and looks her directly in the eyes. She smiles at him, he does not return the smile. He looks tired, like he could use maybe three months off. 

“You majored in journalism?”  
“And polisci,” she says, “When your boss called, I was working at a PR firm in Manhattan.”  
“I know. You good with the press?”  
“Sure.”  
“We’ve been sort of. All doing press for the past few months. ”  
“I’ve noticed.”  
“You interested in taking it over? Spinning, making statements, commentary shows? You seem ready, considering the fact that you moved down to Virginia at a phone call.”  
“You’re the Princeton kid,” she says, not intentionally out loud, “That’s how I know you.” She doesn’t apologize, although she feels she should.  
“I thought they called me a prodigy? Kid’s a little demeaning, don’t you think?”  
“You moved here from Jersey, then. You must have been pretty moved too.”  
“I do this for a living.”  
“Fascinating,” she drawls, feigning interest.  
“You’re like butter,” says Burr, checking his phone with a tinge of sarcasm leaking from his (so far) rather apathetic tone, “Press’ll _love_ you.”  
“I accept the job,” she says, exhaling, realizing exactly how fucking weird this situation is.  
“Glad to have you.”

They exit the office, with that, and Burr starts showing her around— not that there’s much to see, besides people in cramped spaces talking way too loudly for a space this echo-y and small. A man, a frankly very pretty man, with hair longer than Angelica expects from someone Burr is treating as her equal in this office, not that she’s judging, or anything, because he looks exhausted and the words on his screen that she can make out from squinting are like poetry, is hunched over a computer, typing at light-speed, at the desk next to the one Burr tells Angelica is hers. He doesn’t look up when Burr says, “John,” at first, but Burr brings up the volume by about twenty percent, which makes the man’s head snap around, and he whispers, voice shaking a little bit, “Please quiet down, I need this done in two hours and _someone_ went off on twenty sidebars when he drafted it and then made me rewrite it when he found out we have a time limit.”

“This is our new press chief.”  
“Press chief?”  
“I don’t know the right word.”  
“Isn’t knowing the right word your job, Burr?”  
“Technically, yours. Anyway. Angelica, this is John. Don’t tear each other apart, please,” and he walks away, posture falling from its apparent interviews-only state.

John turns back to his laptop, rubs his eyes.

“Should I be doing something?” she asks him, after five minutes.  
“You could read this over? Or you could… I don’t know, uh, consider what you’re packing for Iowa. Tell me about yourself, I guess?”  
“Think fast!” someone yells, and John gets hit in the back with a basketball.  
“Fuck off, Jamie,” he says, rubbing his shoulder, “I’ll kick your ass.”  
  
He sighs, loudly.

“I’m Angelica.”  
“I know you from somewhere.”  
She’s almost embarrassed to say, “Angelica Schuyler.”  
“There we go, that’s why. You ever go to Christmas parties in the District when you were a kid?”  
“Yeah?”  
“John Laurens.”  
“You’re Hispanic.”  
“And? Hasn’t your dad been married like, twelve times?”  
“Twice. Your dad approve of you working for the Congressman’s campaign?”  
“He doesn’t know yet, I told him I gotta keep it quiet.”  
“That’s gonna last.”  
“We’re not going to South Carolina for a few months.”  
“Haven’t you gone on a Sunday show or something by now?”  
He shakes his head, shrugs, “It’s usually Alex or Burr. Probably you now.”  
“Your plan’s not really well thought out.”

He shrugs, turns back to his computer. She exhales.

She does end up getting some work, studying the press’ reactions to Washington like her life depends on it. She has to talk to them tomorrow, she has to talk to them constantly. She knows some of these journalists she’ll be with often from old jobs, and she hates a lot of them. She spots some names she doesn’t recognize, and Googles them to get a handle on them— Maria Lewis, James Callender, those seem like the two big ones. Lewis is a newbie, handles a lot of social topics, and Callender’s an old veteran of journalism, all exposés. Seems more like a tabloid guy than a major publication guy, but somehow, he works for the Post. Too liberal, she supposes. Callender is critical of the campaign, Lewis is rooting for the underdog. She reads up on policy, which Eliza delivers her massive stacks of paper on, while shooting Angelica confused, anxious looks. 

John laughs at the amount she’s reading, sends a knowing look across the bullpen to someone Angelica can’t quite see.

“We’re taking off for Iowa tomorrow at three-p.m.,” says John as she’s getting her things together, “Second day on the job and we’re putting you on the plane. You ready?”  
“I guess. I have Eliza.”  
“And who is Eliza?”  
“My sister. She’s Alexander Hamilton’s assistant, as of today.”  
“Oh, he gets an assistant, now?”  
“You don’t have one?”  
“Not yet, but soon, considering Ham gets one. I have interns though, we all got interns. You have interns. Use ‘em wisely.”  
“You’re his deputy, right?”  
“Yeah,” he says, rolls his eyes, shuts his computer, “Deputy.”  
“How old are you, even? Everyone on this campaign’s a baby.”  
“Thirty-five.”  
“Thirty-two.”  
“Didn’t ask, but cool. Wild. Etcetera. Bye.”

He throws a messenger bag over his shoulders, ties his hair back, and pulls Alexander Hamilton out the door with him. He steals a Red Bull off of Betsey Ross, women’s outreach leader’s, desk chugs the whole thing. Eliza follows behind them, but waits at the door. Angelica takes five minutes to figure out what she needs to bring back to the tiny apartment she and Eliza are renting in Alexandria and what she can leave here— Eliza taps her foot, zips and unzips her jacket pocket about twenty times before Angelica is ready.

“Jesus,” says Eliza, when they leave the building, “That man is a piece of work.”  
“How so? I thought he seemed charming.”  
“He’s a million times more charming than he seems. And also a complete ass. Very much your type. A little bit my type too. Stop me if I start mooning over him, please. Jesus Christ. You going to Iowa tomorrow?”  
“I got gay vibes,” she says, only half joking, “And yeah. I’m going, you?”  
“You get gay vibes off of everyone,” Eliza sighs, “And definitely going.”

  
Angelica laughs, a little, smiles. She collapses onto bed as soon as she gets to the apartment, sleeps the night away.

 

—

 

The plane is loud, cheap, small. Angelica asks Burr who’s flying, and Eliza says, before anyone can say anything else, “My boss. He was in the Air Force, he said? So I have nothing to do on the plane.”  
“Who the hell let him in the Air Force?” Angelica has never understood people going into the military— people going into the military _young_. There were other ways to get money, there were safer ways, and Alex doesn’t seem like he has the patience for military life, either. No one answers her question. 

Burr is playing sudoku on his phone, Angelica notices, leans over his shoulder and gives him tips, he ignores her. John shakes his leg, reads a book the whole time. Angelica never sees the cover.

“You should introduce yourself to the journalists. There are only a few of them on the plane today, but. They need to know you.” Burr says, when he finally finishes the round, about fifteen minutes slower than he could have.

And so she does— the ones on the plane are a young group, younger than the staffers, even. She recognizes Maria Lewis from her LinkedIn page, after all her stalking last night, and then she sees the New York Post’s conservative wunderkind, Allison something,— one she met at her old firm, one probably trying to do some exposé on a terrible campaign of liberalism, bent on destroying American Values, trademark, run almost completely by Minorities, trademark. Angelica smiles at her as sweetly as she can. The other four or so journalists, Angelica has heard of, and they’ve heard of her. She introduces herself anyways:  
  
“I’m Angelica Schuyler, though most of you already know that. I’m the one in charge of you all— If you have questions, you come to me, I’ll give you briefings, all that,” she pulls out a post it from her pocket, reads, “So, the agenda. When we land, we’re doing a town hall at a middle school, mostly to talk about our education plan. We’ll be doing a Q&A on healthcare, and there’s a rally tomorrow afternoon to discuss a very broad range of topics. The state fair is in two days, we’ll be staying for that, also,” she rubs her eyes, she didn’t get enough sleep. She never gets enough sleep. With this campaign, she probably never will.

“I’m Maria Lewis,” she sweeps a strand of hair out of her face, and purses her lips before speaking, like she’s trying to figure out phrasing, “I have a question about equal pay— the Congressman has said absolutely nothing about it publicly, but it’s an important topic for women, especially black and Latina women— key parts of your base, even though y’all aren’t really reaching out for them. Will Washington comment?”  
“Equal pay is obviously important to the Congressman,” Angelica says, breathing in and scouring her memory, “And if you look back on his voting record, you’ll see he’s always voted for efforts to close the gaps that exist.”

  
She smiles. Maria smiles back. Her lips are painted bold red, like a comic book from the sixties, like they’re begging to be noticed— it’s so people pay attention to what she’s saying, Angelica thinks. 

There are a few other questions, more intrinsically related to the day’s agenda— Allison whatever brings up a gaffe from three years ago, back when Washington was in Congress, Angelica slides it off as best she can, garners some laughs from the others. 

She sits back down with Eliza who’s solving a crossword puzzle in a book she bought at a gas station five weeks ago.

“Six letters, imply?” Eliza says, biting her lip. She shakes the pen, fat and ballpoint, side-to-side.

“Hint at.”  
“It doesn’t say two words.”  
“Neither did 45 down, Tony Award.”  
“True.”

“Press is batshit.”  
“So I’ve heard. They want us to fill out planning forms. What we hope to get out of this.”  
“When?”  
“Whenever. Jamie over there gave me one, she didn’t elaborate.”

Angelica’s pencil breaks, when she begins writing the date. She sighs, a little too loudly, and Burr hands her a pen, with something that might have been a wink. She’s not exactly sure. She fills it out, bullshits a little— bullshitting is part of the job, now, she knows. 

She naps for an hour, on Eliza’s shoulder, which shakes to wake her up when the plane lands.

“Okay,” she says, Burr leading the way out of the plane, “What do we do next?”

**Author's Note:**

> i have finals tomorrow pray 4 me
> 
> twitter is @farmerefuted talk to me there
> 
> please comment i need attention to survive


End file.
